So about that whole blogging thing...

So turns out I made that last blog post and then encountered college life and next thing you know I'm a sophomore. I realized only recently that this isn't working out. Blogger requires a fair amount of effort and upkeep, and rightly so. But I don't have time for it. Worse, I don't even have much worth writing about.

So I made another change.

I jumped on another bandwagon.

Don't shoot me.

Seriously though, Tumblr is something I've resisted for a long time, mainly because I thought of it much like I thought of Blogger. I had to be witty, insightful and long-winded in every post. I had to have something to say. Sadly, I do not.

That's where Tumblr comes in.

Every day, I browse an unbelievably large assortment of links, photos, videos and other strata of the great procrastination machine known as the Internet. For a while now I've been simply sharing the better ones on Facebook, but then it hit me: why not use Tumblr? Many of the things I was sharing were even from Tumblr, so it'd be that much simpler to share them.

Makes me kinda sad to officially close this project down. It's been dormant for a while, with short intense bursts of activity every once in a while, but it'll always be my first extended foray into the blogosphere. I'll leave it up for the same reason I started it: in the hope of positively influencing someone, some day, somehow. If anyone ever takes away anything meaningful or thoughtful or just plain humorous from what I've written, I'll be content.

In the meantime, here's my Tumblr (yes I posted the same link three times). You'll find that it's much more active and, hopefully, worth a look.

ManEatingBadger, signing off on Blogger. Happy browsing.

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P.S. Sorry Lee!!! I didn't see your comment "Awaiting Moderation" 'til now, many apologies. I like your sites, hope you keep posting. Keep the faith.

It's been a while...

Hey all, I know it's been months since my last post and years since any real activity here. My life has been and will, I fear, continue to be hectically hectic. My apologies. Anyway, the death of Moammur Gaddhaffi (someone please standardize that spelling!) brought to mind my written response to the killing of Osama din Laden over the summer, my aforementioned "last post." So I typed in that dusty URL--and was amazed. 

Blogger's gone through quite a change, a revolution. Everything's been revamped. I like it. And I just had to start toying with it. You may notice that my blogs have all received minor tweaks, and there's the very real possibility that I could pick these back up right where I left off. I think soon I'll have much more of a story to tell. When I first started this project, the old Of Regurgitations and Nutshells, I had no idea what I was doing. I thought I could write, and write well. I thought I could be entertaining. I thought I could be relevant. 

The reality is that I was a sheltered American teenager from northern California, a graduate of private schools from prekindergarten through high school and borderline socially inept. I fancied myself an expert on all things military and history, and to those who knew me I was perhaps the closest thing to a walking encyclopedia of those subjects. But my expertise was armchair, recycled and regurgitated from numerous online and print sources. Not uncommon, but hardly relevant. 

Class of 2015, Baby! 

In a sense, that hasn't really changed. I'm still an awkward American teenager, about as lucky in love as I am thus far in employment. But I'm no longer in high school. Or California. I'm currently attending the Elliot School of International Affairs at the George Washington University in Washington, D.C. I can step outside my dorm and be anywhere on the national mall in minutes. I'm taking Beginning Arabic and am hoping to become fluent. I'm attending seminars and debates, watching people who matter in action. And I'm loving it. 

So in short, no promises. I hope to post here when I can, especially when something interesting happens, and, it being the nation's capital, something's always happening. Still, it feels like senior year never ended, like the workload carried over to college except now my hordes of extracurriculars have been replaced by basic housekeeping and chores. But know this: 

ManEatingBadger lives.

A house divided against itself cannot stand--and I'm the wall that must collapse

No stepparent should have to put up with insolent children.

No parent should have to feel caught between the competing influences of spouse and child.

No child should have to look his father in the eye and say he won't see him again.

They say hindsight is 20/20; mine is all too perfect.

Snubbed requests, ignored feelings, a dinner argument gone horribly wrong... and then I found myself alone, bewildered, saddened, and lost.

I never thought it would ever come to that, I always thought differences could be addressed, conflicts resolved.

Last night, I found otherwise--and panicked.  And, in my panic, I told my own father, one of the two people I love most in this world, that there would be no need for him to drive me to school again.

The mental berating was instantaneous.  The instant those words left my mouth, my mind went hyperactive, mercilessly lashing itself with silent cries of "No!", "What kind of monster are you?", and a torrent of curses I shudder to remember.  Numbed, all I could do was barricade myself in my room and sink wretchedly to the floor.  I was a nervous wreck; my breath caught, my teeth clenched, my hands formed fists, and angry tears streamed down my cheeks.  I was literally torturing myself inside.  The dam doesn't break like that often, but when it does I fear to think of suicide.  I kept asking myself "Why?"  Why did I say such a thing?  How could I?

And in my misery I fell to my knees, clasped my hands, and prayed.

Now, first, understand that I'm an agnostic, a member of my local Unitarian Universalist Society, and I have little personal use for prayer.  A long time ago, back when I was still confused at to what I believed spiritually, I sat at my bed and prayed--to everything.  I directed my plea for guidance to any  and every deity I could think of, from the God of Christianity, Judaism, and Islam, to the Greek tenants of Mt. Olympus.  I was met with silence, which convinced me to discover the truth about "it all" for myself, without anyone imposing an arbitrary creed on me.

But, last night, I fervently prayed to whatever higher power may be up there, asking not for a miracle but just a little help.  Help to control my temper.  Help to control that of my stepmother.  Help for my father to find stable ground for the family.

Again, no answer.  But I hope I was heard.  Because I didn't mean what I said to my father.  No matter how far things have deteriorated since he was married, I still love him and would never be parted from him.  And, as bleak as things look now, there's still hope.  There always is.  My stepmother's posturing has made me the antagonist of the family, the instigator of all our problems.  With a little help, I figure I can meet that challenge and push reconciliation.  Just a little help.

Have rain, will muse

Most people don't get up at 8:00 in the morning on a Sunday--at least, not if they can help it.  Especially teenagers.  Go on Facebook before noon and odds are it'll be deserted, nobody foolish enough to log on that early to chat. 

Most people also don't get up at 8:00 in the morning on Sunday in the pouring rain to run.  Especially teenagers. 

Which only goes to show the exhaustively-proven point that I'm not most people.  Or most teenagers. 

Yes, I admit it, I did get up at 8:13 (had to hit "Snooze" on the alarm clock twice), pull on a long-sleeved synthetic shirt and shorts, and slip out the door for a drizzling run.  Nothing much, just a short warm-up jog followed by maybe ten hill repeats and another short jog back home.  It was cold; the wind would pick up every minute or so and blast my drenched body, making me wonder if an air-breathing shirt was really a good idea that morning.  Water beaded down my face and streamed down my neck, occassionally forcing me to blink and shake my head.  I swear a quart of water would fly out of my hair every time I did this.  But I noticed more than anything the serenity of the moment: the empty streets (only three cars on a normally busy nearby thoroughfare), the light harmony of the raindrops, the comforting shades of gray (always wondered, is it "gray" or "grey"?) in the sky...  I loved it, soaking-wet and all. 

Ironically, I hate running in the cold.  My friends taunt me when it's seventy degrees, asking my opinion on the "really great weather" we're having at practice.  They roll their eyes when I stand my ground and firmly declare my preference for warmer temperatures, ninety degrees with a slight breeze if possible, thank you very much.  They laugh when I run stiff-legged, bemoaning the infernally cold (70-degree) chill that stiffens my muscles and prevents my legs from fully extending. 

But last week I had my revenge. 

It was Friday, the last period at school.  Northern California was throughly socked in with thunderheads, with snow as low as several hundred feet above sea-level (I used to live in the foothills, and friends who still live up there are celebrating snow-days from school, lucky them).  I faced the approaching dismissal with growing apprehension, for then I'd be out in the cold for about an hour, running in the rain and hopefully retaining the biological capability to have children.  As the classrooms emptied and people streamed to their lockers, I changed in the bathroom and walked outside.  As I went to put my stuff away, I passed a fellow cross-country team runner (the season had ended a few weeks ago, but I knew he was still training for the upcoming track season in spring).  He took one look at my attire--laced New Balances, synthetic long-sleeved shirt I'd bought at at the high school Cross-Country State Finals in Fresno, and Cal-logo athletic shorts--and whistled softly.  "You going out today?" he asked.  I nodded and asked if he was.  "Hell no, man!  It's too cold!" he replied.  Shaking his head in wonderment, he left waving goodbye.  Despite the cold, I laughed; here I was, the guy who hated running in the cold, being told by this other guy, our team leader no less, who'd run in far worse conditions than this paltry rain, had just told me it was too cold.  Grinnig and shaking my own head, I turned and left for the trail. 

Why do I bring any of this up?  Oddly enough, poetry.  And before those of you who read the last post flinch and groan in despair, hear me out.  Personally, I think the weather is to blame.  I haven't written a word of creative writing since, what, last summer?  And now--BAM--twice in one month.  Anyway, I was standing in the rain yesterday, having helped my mother put up holdiay lights (isicles and sasssenach--does anyone know how to spell that?), and my mind went into spiritual hyperdrive.  There's something about the peace and solitude of a good rain, it just has a calming aura, a soothing essence.  I can't really describe it, though not for lack of trying, as evidenced in "There's Something About Rain", below:

There's Somthing About Rain

There's something about rain:

The soft pitter of leaves,

The constant patter on concrete,

The concentric impacts in the puddles...

Heaven's floodgates readily lend

Themselves to quiet

Contemplation. 

It's not much, but hey, I just ran at 8:00 in the morning on Sunday in the pouring rain. 

Depressed mental wanderings

Poetry has always been my downfall; I can never write what I feel to be "good" poetry without feeling soiled, as though I'm shoving meaning artificially into each stanza.  My English teachers tell me I'm crazy, so maybe I was doing it right to start out with, but eventually I wrote a poem I finally felt good about.  It was for my mother's birthday, and I just through inhibitions to the winds and tried not so much to write as to flow, letting the words pass naturally from brain to hand to pencil to paper and, eventually, to Microsoft Office 2003 Word.  I was so proud of myself; it'd felt good, I hadn't so much as capitalized a single motif or emphasized a single theme, and I felt refreshed.  Finally, I'd written poetry.  Or so I thought. 

When my mother finally read it, she sat me down and said, "It's a beautifully written poem..."  I was prepared to offer my ever-modest denials, prepared to mutter how it wasn't anything at all and I hoped she'd had a really enjoyable birthday, when she dropped the bombshell: "But what does it mean?" 

I can't remember giving her a coherent answer.  I was stunned, speechless, incredulous.  Mean?  It had to mean something?  My writing philosophy, already messed up before, was thrown into even greater turmoil.  I couldn't believe it.  Here I had fought to write a completely natural-feeling poem without strenuously laboring to forcibly inject meaning into a poem, and I was asked, "But what does it mean?" 

A year later, I'm still recovering, much to the detriment of my AP English classwork.  Back in elementary and middle school, I'd had it all figured out.  But, just as many high schoolers seemed to find their written voice, I'd lost mine.  I'm still reevaluating how I analyze literature and poetry, and still haven't figured out how to write them to my satisfaction (teachers still tell me I write well, which is something). 

Anyway, this all comes up because I wrote a poem tonight.  I'm not sure why, I have tons of homework I could--make that should--be doing.  Maybe it was hormones.  Maybe it was the depressing yet inspiring tones of Rob Dougan pumping out of my computer speakers.  I don't know, but I feel it encompasses, well, how I feel.  About life.  About how it happens.  About how it happens to me. 

Call me depressed, disturbed, whatever.  I've found I'm always attracted to darker, more melodic tunes, especially movie and video game soundtracks by the like of Hans Zimmer, James Newton Howard, and Clint Mansell.  And as I've progressed through teenage puberty, depression (or hormones or whatever it is) is increasingly becoming a major part of my life.  That sounds ominous, and it shouldn't; I just mean that, more and more, I'm stopping before I fall asleep to contemplate how little I've done, how little I can do, and the chances of being able to achieve even that.  Being a novice at relationships probably doesn't help, and I've been forced at times to suppress this "depression" in favor of buckling down to schoolwork, which I'm sure makes me more irritable.  Anyway, enough psychoanalyzing; here's "Alone" (I couldn't come up with a better title):

Alone


Yell down the hall

And 'cross the glade,

Yet the anguish within

Refuses to fade.

‘Tis my lot to cry,

My lot to die

In the pouring rain, alone.

What humanity is this, that

Holds the scissors, though

The line is young and ripe?

Through man’s eyes the child saw

And could not comprehend,

His whimpers lost in the wind.

 - ManEatingBadger -

Happy Halloween!

Halloween hasn't been much of a big deal for me since middle school, back when I was more prone to begging door-to-door for candy, ambushing hapless fellow trick-or-treaters with Super Soakers, and other such juvenile pasttimes.  But tonight I proved I could still get in the spirit of things, albeit after a run, nap, and an early snack. 

My friend wanted to carve pumpkins; I wasn't exactly in the mood, but after a little prodding decided to go along.  While he set about carving a particularly nasty looking jack-o-lantern (at right), I puzzled over designs for mine.  Nothing particularly appealing came to mind and my eyes kept wandering over to the football game on the 46'' (small, I know, but I can't convince my parents otherwise) flatscreen in the living room.  Cal Berkeley was playing Arizona State, and it would come down to a nail-biting 23-21 Cal victory. 

As I watched, I realized the flowing "Cal" script would be perfect for a pumpkin, if only I could carve it.  Then, as the game progressed and the Bears looked about to lose 21-20, I thought carving "Cal" might not be such a great idea.  Finally, Giorgio Tavecchio chipped in an easy (relative term here, since he missed an earlier one) field goal to cinch the final, but for a while it was a near thing.  Tempe was going wild. 

I was watching the whole time, afraid I'd have to scrap my idea and carve yet another cliched menacing jack-o-lantern.  But the instant Cal declined both ASU penalties as time ran out, I leapt into action, furiously sketching an approximate outline before laboriously carving my creation. 

The result wasn't exactly aesthetically pleasing in daylight, but once the sun set and after we lit some candles inside the thing positively glowed.  Facebook responded positively (mostly) to uploaded photos of it (several diehard Stanford friends were unsurprisingly rather disparaging), so I feel those were two hours well-spent. 

Happy Halloween! 

 - ManEatingBadger -

Reconstruction

Those of you following this blog may have noted the not-so-subtle template changes and post removals over the past week or so with growing dread and horror of the inner turmoil this (man-eating) badger must be going through.

I'm here to tell you otherwise.

Recently, I attended a blogging seminar at a journalism convention and, while I really didn't learn anything I didn't already know, it dawned on me that perhaps I'd been overloading my trusty Of Regurgiations and Nutshells with seemingly random articles on a multitude of topics.  And I thought that, while that may be the business model for some bloggers, it wasn't so for me.  So, upon arriving home, I dashed to my PC and set about creating three new, more focused blogs, each branching off from this one and specializing in a particular interest of mine.  The first I made for geopolitical security discussions: DefenceTalk.  I had trouble naming the second until I reevaluated what the blog was meant to be: an open-minded and explorative commentary on religious and political controversy and policy.  Eventually, I concluded that its purpose was to expand my Horizons--hence, the name.  Finally, I decided that my ever-so-popular reviews required a new home dedicated entirely to them, so the PPR - Picks, Pans, and Reviews was born. 

After all that, I decided my original blog needed a new look to go with its new main purpose of detailing certain joys, sorrows, and other episodes of my life.  You now read the result--Nutshells--of that unending labor. 

Enjoy!  And please keep in mind that, while I'm in school, posting will be limited.  At the moment I'm more concerned with moving posts from here to their new aforementioned homes.  So, in reality, I haven't deleted anything, just started anew. 

 - ManEatingBadger -